Fashion (Being an account of my foray into modeling)

(This is picking up on something featured in COTA Chatter a few weeks ago.)

"I would never join any club that would have me as a member."
-- Groucho Marx

The day before my modeling audition I went on a shopping trip with my two very hetero friends, Mike and Nick. We went to Kohls of course, the seat of fashion. We decided to keep it simple -- nice jeans, new shoes, maybe a shirt. Other than a trip to the Gap with a gift card sixteen months ago I haven't been shopping for new clothes in many, many years. I'm more of a thrift store man. I also take hand-me-downs from friends. At any rate, I hadn't been to Kohls since before my face had known the touch of a razor.

We went with a very sleek pair of Levi's skinny jeans, some nice brown leather shoes, new belt, new socks. I decided to wear the one "stylish" shirt that I already own (it was a gift) and I think it turned out well. I'm sure the three of us made quite a scene: me making endless sorties from the dressing-room while Mike and Nick discoursed on what directions to take. Skinny jeans are quite a departure for me, as I am also more of a loose-fitting kind of guy. But god damn: I looked good. The shoes were real horrorshow as well.

I arrived a few minutes early to the office of the talent agency. It was located in one suite of an office building in downtown Columbus. The main room consisted of a reception desk and a few rows of chairs facing a slightly elevated runway. Other rooms adjoined this main room, but it was clearly a pretty small operation. Music that I could only describe as "clubbish" played loudly from concert-sized speakers along the wall. Modest yet professional modeling photos hung from the walls in sparing numbers.

Upon checking in I was given an application to fill out along with a numbered card. On the reverse side of the card was a line to memorize:

"Only one wireless network has the sleekest phones around with Americas most reliable service.

Verizon Wireless. It's The Network."

There were perhaps 25 other contestants, only a few of whom struck me as having potential. But then, who the fuck was I? Well, I was the only white male there, so I figured that couldn't hurt my chances. Someone needs to sells wrinkle-free khakis and mayonnaise, right? I also looked damn sharp, and I wouldn't say that about many of the others, the men especially. We were called by number into a side room where measurements and photos were taken.

"Don't strain," the photographer mentioned as he snapped a shot. OK, I thought as I stopped doing . . . whatever it was that came across as "straining." This was a weird scene, friends.

When everyone had been screened in this manner we were given our instructions. We would step up to the runway, pausing at the top to "strike a pose." (Hopefully those of you who are not in the industry won't be too intimidated by use of industry terminology.) Then we would walk to the bottom of the runway where we would strike two more poses, saunter back to the top, and deliver our memorized line.

Being number 12, I had the privilege to watch some of my competition. And let me tell you, oh my droogs and brothers, it was no competition. Now, I am no judge of "posing" except when I judge the whole practice as despicable. But I am a judge of stage performance. One or two people nailed their lines, maybe another two had good delivery, but the rest . . . oh it was like watching them vomit all over themselves. It was so embarrassing. Halting delivery, abysmal elocution, dropping lines and apologizing for it, lots of pathetic, nervous laughter. It was just really ugly. OK -- my turn. Put up or shut up.

This is how I think it went: I walked with an unhurried yet assertive stride. I posed casually, disinterestedly, my eyes fixed beyond the audience. I had a slight phlegmy roughness in my voice, but I delivered my line accurately, with mild, deliberate emphasis.

Conceited? Me? Pshaw . . . but I thought it went pretty well.

After everyone had finished we waited to see who was getting voted off the island. James, the enigma who recruited me, had been lurking the whole time. At this point he made an announcement.

"Hey, if you've got talent now is the time to show it. Get on up there. If you sing lets hear it. If you can dance we want to see it. You act, get on up there and act. Now is your chance to show us what you can do!"

The place began to buzz. Eyes searched the room and everyone searched their souls for that extra giddy-up that might make them a star. We all hesitated collectively. Its hard to be the first for most people. Me, I prefer it. Lead, follow, or get the fuck out of my way. I stood up, took off my jacket, and asked the room to lend me their ears. With a brief introduction, I delivered (with a well-practiced yet tepid Scottish accent) these lines from the film Braveheart.

"Aye, fight and you may die. Run . . . and you'll live. At least for a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this one to that for one chance, just one chance, to say to our enemies -- that they may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!"

If you haven't seen Braveheart go out, rent it, buy a bottle of wine, light a candle, and watch it. Tonight. I have done this monologue many times, and some people really enjoy it. (You know who you are, and thanks for all your encouragement over the years). Suffice to say, I do it pretty well, swelling in volume to a small roar by the end. I thundered in that small office, pacing on the runway before my ragged army. It was quite a scene -- just the pure spectacle of it all.

A few people rapped, a few sang. They were mostly OK. None of us wowed anybody, myself included. A few people got cut, but most of us didn't. The next step was to run our face, build, and size through some type of human-marketing-sorter-program-thingy. We needed a certain score to move forward. I set up an appointment to learn the results of my test.

(Three days of sleepless nights, chewing my fingernails to the root, hoping, praying that this I wouldn't miss my shot. "Please God let this be my time to shine!")

I returned to the same office suite, where I had to wait for about an hour. Thank God there was a TV there, and someone in the office put on a movie. "Taken" starring Liam Neeson.

"You seen this movie man?"

(I hadn't.)

"It's called 'Taken.' It's pretty good."

(It isn't.)

I went over the results of my market test with someone in a side office. According to this computer I have (out of 10.0) : 0.0 potential for high-fashion modeling (runway type stuff), 7.0 potential for print advertising, and 6.0 for promotional (I guess this is like chicks in bikinis at a car show, I have no idea how men would be used for this). So I did alright, well enough to accepted and given a formal offer of their services. The next step? I asked. Get out your checkbook, was the answer.

Here is what it will cost me to enroll with this "talent"company.

Set Up Fee: $49.95
Monthly Membership: $19.95

That would be $69.90 that I would have to pay on the spot to move forward. After that I will be allowed to pay the following (required before I am marketed as a model):

Two Modeling/Acting classes: $34.95 per class
Photo Shoot: $149.95
Performer's Reel (optional, but highly recommended): $99.95
Digital Composite Card on CD: $10.00

The woman explaining all this to me then went to to explain everything that I get for free and also that she could not legally guarantee me that I would every get a single job through them. She was in fact trying to sell this to me. The paper with the listing of these fees contained space for my signature and my credit card number. "Wow!" I thought. "They really want me in their agency! I must have just the kind of face they are looking for: the face of a sucker."

I don't think this place, Xtreme Talent, Columbus, OH, is entirely a scam. But I do think that it is a scam six days a week. This whole meeting struck me as backwards: I should be trying to sell them on my talent and obvious handsomness. Instead they were trying to sell me on this ridiculous package ("Free exposure in the entertainment industry," it actually said this on the same page that mentioned the $19.95 monthly fee).

After I mentioned hesitancy about paying all this money I was politely and tactfully dismissed. I was kind of disappointed, but I never had any real expectation anyway. I am not model material, and I should have been clued into the potential of this to be bullshit right off the bat. I feel bad for the vulnerable and confidence-lacking people who must be taken in by this.

So that was it. I delivered my pitch in a Scottish accent and they gave theirs with flattering deception, people sorting computers, Liam Neeson, and a credit card authorization.

Sound and fury signifying nothing.